Page 143 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Giles,” she protested, “I know nothing of battles nor armies—nor even how to wield a sword.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I nearly forgot.” And he stepped back to unsheathe the sword in his scabbard, then held it out, presenting it to her lengthwise, suspended atop the tips of his fingers. “It served me well, but ’tis only fitting it should serve a Pendragon since the alloy used to forge it was designed by adewineto servea Pendragon. And before she could speak another word, he said, “Lessons begin on the morrow.”
Rosalynde blinked, reaching out to touch the shining metal—perfectly made, perfectly preserved, even after so many centuries.
The sword was imbued by the Merlin of Britain, she realized, the father of their coven… Taliesin.
Very reverently, she took the sword from her husband’s hands, and with some effort, she held it aloft, lifting the blade so it pointed skyward, catching the sun with a hard gleam that no doubt shone for miles. It was only then… as the sword stood erect in her hands… that she noticed something she hadn’t seen before—a single word inscribed between the serpents…Caledfwlch… translated, it meant cut steel… and in the language of the Holy Church…Caliburn… orExcalibor.Blinking, with sudden realization, she peered up at her lord husband.
He lifted one golden brow, and then shrugged. “Luck of the draw,” he said.
What’s next for the daughters of Avalon? Turn the page.
Fire Song
I have been a multitude of shapes before I assumed this form: I was a drop of rain in the air; I was the brightest of stars…
—TALIESIN
Prologue
DARKWOOD INN, JULY 1148
Moonlight shone off the oily contents of an ornately carved tub, making the substance darker under its silvery light.
From a dark corner of the foul-smelling room came a persistentrap, tap, tap. This was Bran—Morwen’s familiar—though it was impossible to say what the filthy bird could be doing. There were no lamps lit to chase away the shadows, nor even a stingy taper, and it was perhaps to her mother’s delight that her three youngest daughters sat shivering on a dirty bed in the darkness.
What in the name of the Goddess did she expect they would do? Burn down the inn?
For certes, any one of them could do so without a candle. But even as frightened as they were, they would never, ever endanger innocent lives. There were others in residence here at Darkwood.
Rap, tap. Rap, tap, rap. Rap. Tap.
Instinctively, the three sisters huddled closer. Soiled and greasy as the sheets must be, they daren’t leave its sanctuary. Not only was the room cold and dark, but the scent of something pungent and disturbingly familiar filled Seren with a terribleforeboding. It was a feeling she couldn’t ignore, for in itself, intuition was a form ofmagik,ancient as the world was old. According to their grandmamau all men, no matter their blood, had a sense for such things. At the instant, her own sense of intuition was like a mantle of gloom, dark and oppressive.
How wrong she had been about their mother—how very wrong. For so long Seren had convinced herself that, deep down, their mother must love them—as any mother should. She had convinced herself that once Morwen found herself a proper benefactor she would send for her daughters, and then, they would all live happily ever after. Only now she realized… that was a fool’s dream… a child’s desperate fantasy. Morwen’s disdain for her children couldn’t be more apparent. It was tangible, evidenced by the curl of her lip whenever she deigned to acknowledge them. And yet, the truth was difficult to bear: Their mother loathed them, and whatever plans she had for them now, they would suit Morwen and no other.
Rap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap…. tap.
Silence met Bran’s application—a silence so complete Seren couldn’t even hear her sisters breathing.
Even if they were brave enough to attempt an escape, it would be impossible with those two burly guards posted outside their door. In the overwhelming gloom of this room, she couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face, much less a means for escape.
And… no matter that they were alone, save for that dreary old bird, Seren couldn’t shake the awful feeling they were being watched…
Rap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap.
“It’s just a bird,” she said aloud.
For her sisters’ sakes, she refused to be cowed. They were Pendragons, descended of Welsh kings. But more, she and her sisters were the last livingdewinesborn of the blood of Taliesin,the great Merlin of Britain. They were true Daughters of Avalon, children of the Earth Mother and maidens pledged to thehud. And despite that their mother believed them without wit or will, they had skills, thanks to dear, defiant Rhiannon, who was led from their cottage last night with hands bound and a length of rope about her neck, like a bloody hound.
Much to their dismay, they hadn’t seen her since. The very instant she was wheeled away, their mother ushered them into one of Ersinius’ wagons and spirited them here, to this decrepit little inn surrounded by dark, twisty woods. And then, immediately upon arrival, their mother’s sycophant, Mordecai, led them up the stairs, leaving Morwen downstairs to barter with the innkeeper.
Hours later, the shock of their ordeal was slowly subsiding, but uncertainty bridled their tongues, until finally, Arwyn dared to breach the silence. “Where do you think they will take her?”
There was no need to ask of whom she spoke… even withoutmindspeaking, they were thinking the same thing. “I know not,” answered Rosalynde.
Seren rubbed her left arm, at the very spot where Mordecai’s fingers had gripped her flesh so meanly. “I heard tell of Blackwood.”
